MYSTERY THRILLER DOUBLE PLAY BOX SET (Two full-length novels)

by Osborne, Jon

  Outside in the hallway, Richard Patton lay convulsing on the floor in a bright red pool of his own blood, shot once through the left side of his neck, blood gushing from his throat with every powerful beat of his badly laboring heart.

  Patton’s watery eyes glazed over as he looked up at the Race Master in utter disbelief. His voice emerged from his destroyed vocal cords as little more than a whisper, his blue lips struggling to form the one-word question:

  “Why?”

  The Race Master towered over the man and lifted the Walther again. The sharp report of another gunshot filled the hallway, exploding Richard Patton’s skull all over the hardwood floor.

  The Race Master then turned the gun on the young blonde man quivering in fear three feet away as a dark circle of urine spread slowly across the front of the man’s trousers.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Gregory?” the Race Master demanded, cocking the hammer on the Walther again.

  Gregory Mellon’s eyes flooded with the terror. His voice shook like a dead leaf on a tree. “Patton wanted to make his report to you, sir. I told him that it was much too late to bother you, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  The Race Master slapped Gregory Mellon so hard across the face with his free hand that it left finger-marks on the man’s right cheek. “Settle down, Gregory!” he snarled. “Get a hold of yourself, man! What was Richard going to tell me?”

  Mellon shook his head and cast his ashamed gaze down to the floor. “I don’t know, sir,” he blubbered. “I swear to God I don’t. He wouldn’t tell me. He said it was between you and him. Please, sir…”

  The Race Master held up a hand to silence him. “Shut the fuck up, Gregory. Just shut the fuck up. I need a moment to think.”

  Several long moments passed before the Race Master finally said, “Bring Richard’s cellphone to me, Gregory. Do it immediately.”

  As Mellon scampered away, the Race Master put a hand to his aching temple in an effort to quell the headache that was threatening to split his skull wide open. He took in a deep breath through his nostrils and forced himself to calm down. He’d worked far too damned long and far too damned hard to go off half-cocked like this at this late stage of the game. He’d was much too close to finally accomplishing his sacred mission, much too close to taking the final step that would spring his older brother from his cold prison cell in Germany. So above all else he needed to remain calm here, he knew that, to remain collected and see things all the way through to the bitter end. That was key, his only chance for success.

  The Race Master’s thoughts flashed to Stefan, jailed these past thirty years in his cold German prison cell. Stefan had surely endured far more unspeakable horrors than these, so if he could keep things together, the Race Master could, too. Had to, really. There was no other choice.

  Mellon appeared again a moment later and handed him Patton’s cellphone before scurrying away again like a diseased rat deserting a sinking ship.

  Shaking his head in disgust, the Race Master flipped open the phone and tapped the dialed-calls key while Bane licked Richard Patton’s bright red blood off the hardwood floor five feet away, a contented growl coming from deep within his thick throat.

  The Race Master narrowed his striking blue eyes as his gaze ran over the phone’s history log. Then he looked back down at Patton’s motionless body. “What the fuck were you up to, Richard?”

  Patton didn’t answer him. Then again, dead men didn’t usually tell too many tales, now did they?

  CHAPTER 99

  Dana’s beautiful dream continued into the wee morning hours. Upon waking, she’d wonder why the heck her cheeks felt so darn sore. The answer would be simple enough to understand:

  The answer would be because she’d been smiling.

  ***

  In Dana’s dream, she is four years old again.

  It is the Fourth of July and she and her parents have just come back into the house after having enjoyed a wonderfully exciting holiday picnic in their backyard.

  Still all wound-up from being allowed to play Fairy Princess with a magic-wand sparkler, there is another hour of frantic play before the first signs of sleep begin to creep into the corners of her enormous blue eyes.

  She finally curls up in her father’s lap as he sits on the living-room couch watching the evening news on their cabinet-style television. As usual, her mother is at the kitchen table reviewing a large pile of legal briefs that she has brought home from work, periodically jotting down notes on the yellow legal pad at her side.

  As Dan Rather signs off for the night, Dana stretches her arms over her head and lets out a loud yawn.

  ***

  “Getting sleepy, honey bear?” James Whitestone asked, lightly scratching his daughter’s back over her Barbie T-shirt.

  Dana nodded and yawned again. “Mmhmm. I think I’m ready for bed now, Daddy.”

  Hearing this declaration, Sara stood up, crossed into the living room and plucked Dana from her father’s lap. “Well then, let’s go brush your teeth and get you ready for bed, sleepyhead. Then I’ll tuck you in and read you a bedtime story. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds good, ’cept why do I gotta brush my teeth again? I brushed them this morning, remember? They’re still pretty clean.’’

  Sara laughed and rapidly kissed the soft hollow of her daughter’s neck. “You have to brush them again, silly, so that the Cavity Creeps won’t invade Toothopolis while you’re sleeping tonight.”

  Dana squirmed in her mother’s arms. “OK, OK, already! Just stop that already – you’re tickling me, Mommy!”

  When they’d finished up in the bathroom, they got Dana dressed in her pajamas and into bed. Pulling back the Big Bird covers, Sara tucked them in gently around her daughter’s small body. “What shall we read tonight, sweetheart?” she asked.

  Dana screwed up her face in concentration. Important decision here. “Hmm. How about we just do the story of Dana and the Three Friends again instead of reading from a book?”

  Sara smiled. It was their own personal version of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, and over time and with Dana’s considered input, the story changed slightly with each telling.

  Switching off the overhead light left only the soft glow of Dana’s bedside lamp. Clearing her throat dramatically, Sara began this night’s version of the tale.

  “Once upon a time there lived a delightful group of three friends, and their names were Mrs. Lula, Mr. Sunday and their precious baby – the wonderfully cute and adorable little Pano. They all lived together in a cozy little cottage in the forest and they enjoyed their peaceful lives there very much.”

  “Nope,” Dana corrected. “That’s not right. They live in a gingerbread house in the forest now, Mommy. They moved last week.”

  Sara laughed and tickled her daughter’s belly. “Okay, smarty-pants, they moved last week. I think I can live with that. Anyway, the Three Friends all lived together in a cozy gingerbread house in the forest and they enjoyed their peaceful lives there very much.”

  The story progressed from there with the Three Friends deciding to take a walk in the forest in order to give their chocolate-cake breakfasts time to cool down. When they’d finally made it back home, Dana suggested they get James to do the voices.

  “He does them best,” she explained.

  When James had been summoned and had taken a seat next to his wife on the bed, Sara continued the story, leading him into his lines.

  “The Three Friends had just returned home,” she prompted. “Pano could hardly wait to eat!”

  “What’s this?” James asked in his Mr. Sunday voice. “Somebody has been nibbling on my cake!” Switching to his feminine Mrs. Lula voice, he said, “And somebody had been nibbling on my cake, too!” Finally, Pano’s high-pitched and deeply wounded voice. “And somebody’s been nibbling on my cake too, and they’ve eaten it all up!”

  “Uh-oh,” Dana cut in. “Somebody’s in a shitload of trouble.”

  Sara slumped her shoulders
in defeat, much too tired to correct her daughter’s language again. Glancing over at her husband, she gave him a long, meaningful look before continuing. “Looking around the room, Mr. Sunday noticed the chairs,” she said.

  “Somebody has been sitting in my chair,” James growled as Mr. Sunday. “And somebody has been sitting in my chair, as well!” he offered in his Mrs Lula voice.

  “But it was Pano who was the most upset, the tears coming from his eyes.”

  “Somebody has been sitting in my chair, too, and they broke it all to pieces!” James thundered. “This is total bullshit!”

  “James Allen Whitestone!’ Sara cried out. ‘It’s no wonders she talks like a trucker!”

  James tried to choke out an apology but couldn’t do it through the waves of laughter racking his body. After several long moments, he finally took a deep breath and wiped at his misty eyes. “Let me try that again,” he said. “Somebody has been sitting in my chair and they broke it all to pieces.”

  Sara paused and looked at him expectantly. She knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.

  “They broke my favorite chair, the inconsiderate little bastards,” James muttered underneath his breath.

  Dana giggled happily, but Sara just ignored him. “Don’t listen to him, Dana. Don’t listen to a single thing he says. I don’t know why they ever let him out of the Bad Boys’ Home in the first place. I’m calling them first thing in the morning so they can come pick him up.”

  She stared at her husband for several measured beats before turning her attention back to her daughter. “Now, where was I before we were so rudely interrupted?”

  “The Three Friends had just found out their chairs were all busted up,” Dana answered helpfully.

  “Oh, yes. That’s right. Thank you, honey. The Three Friends did not know what they would find next, so they dashed upstairs lickety-split. Mr. Sunday was the first to look into the bedroom.”

  Sara paused and looked over at her husband, who obediently took his place back in the story.

  “Somebody has been sleeping in my bed!” James bellowed as Mr. Sunday. Switching to his Mrs Lula voice, he added, “And somebody has been sleeping in my bed, too!”

  “Pano rubbed his eyes in disbelief.”

  “And somebody has been sleeping in my bed, and there she is now!” James cried out.

  Dana’s big blue eyes went saucer-wide as she peeked out from beneath the covers.

  “Suddenly,” Sara said, her voice taking on a sense of urgency now, “Dana opened her eyes and shrieked at the sight of the Three Friends glaring down at her. But the friends never had a chance to do anything to her, for Dana jumped out of bed, ran down the stairs and was out of the house in the blink of an eye.

  “Needless to say, the Three Friends never saw Dana anywhere near their cozy little gingerbread house in the forest ever again. And as for little Dana, well, let’s just say that she became a lot more careful in her future adventures.

  “The End,” Sara pronounced.

  “Mommy?” Dana asked quietly, rubbing slowly at her eyes with a tiny balled-up fist.

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Maybe tomorrow the Three Friends can call Dana up on the phone and ask her to come over to watch TV with them. That way they could be the Four Friends from now on.”

  She paused and looked up at her mother. The innocence in her big blue eyes nearly broke Sara Whitestone’s heart. “Don’t worry, Mommy. We’ll only watch PBS, I promise.”

  Sara smiled. “I think that would be just fine, but it’s time for bed now, my little princess.”

  She leaned forward and kissed her daughter softly on the forehead. “Sweet dreams, my darling little baby girl. I love you with all my heart.”

  Somehow, Dana managed to mumble her reply just a moment before promptly falling asleep.

  “I love you too, Mommy.”

  CHAPTER 100

  At exactly eight p.m. that night, Angel met Malachai for dinner at John Q.’s Steakhouse downtown.

  John Q.’s was the most expensive restaurant in all of Cleveland. Real linen napkins. Substantial silverware. Muted lighting. A tuxedoed piano player softly producing beautiful music over in one corner.

  A black piano player, Angel couldn’t help but notice. Just another performing monkey for all the white people to stare at? Just another example of how awesome “they” were all supposed to be at entertaining?

  Angel tried to keep the conversation neutral over their salads, but by the time their steaks had arrived she couldn’t hold it back any longer, finally breaking down and telling Malachai all about the disgusting book she’d read just a few hours earlier.

  Malachai put down his fork and looked around the place. He and Angel were the only black people in the restaurant other than the piano player, and don’t think they didn’t know it. Knew it with every pair of eyes that had burned holes through the backs of their skulls just as soon as they’d walked in through the front doors.

  “You know they all fucking hate us, right, Angel?” Malachai asked in a low voice. “There’s no use in pretending about it anymore. They think we’re all gangsters and drug dealers and thugs, and pieces of shit like Razor Diggs only perpetuate that kind of thinking, that kind of belief. Whenever they look at us, they see him, you know. It’s true. It’s just how it is, and it’s never going to change. Not in a million fucking years.”

  He wiped irritably at his mouth with a heavy linen napkin and went on. “You think I don’t see it every single day at work? I make eighty-five grand a year at the law firm, but do you think I’ll ever even sniff partner? Highly fucking unlikely. I’m just a little nigger errand boy to them, just a token black face to smile out from the front of their goddamn Christmas cards.”

  Malachai lowered his gaze and fidgeted with the tablecloth. Angel could see that he felt hurt by what he was saying, but also that he believed every single word of it.

  She reached out a hand and placed it lightly on top of his. “It can’t be that bad, can it, Malachai?”

  He raised his stare to meet hers. “It’s worse, Angel. A lot worse.”

  “And it’s never going to change?”

  “Not in a million fucking years.”

  Angel took away her hand before she and Malachai finished their steaks in silence. What else was there left to say? Should they just remind each other again that they weren’t shit in the eyes of the white world? That they weren’t even human?

  No fucking thank you.

  CHAPTER 101

  The Race Master leaned back in his comfortable leather chair inside his exceedingly fine den the following morning while Bach’s Adagio in G Minor played softly on the antique record player over in the corner and he absentmindedly polished the bones from Richard Patton’s right arm for use as kindling in the barbecue pit. Tonight he’d move their base of operations out to the Brotherhood’s headquarters in Creek Run, Mississippi. It was a little sooner than he’d anticipated, of course, but he needed to stay fluid here and adapt his movements as the situation dictated.

  Richard Patton’s cellphone had contained several untraceable calls that worried him. It seemed highly unlikely that any of them would have been made to the authorities, but the Race Master simply couldn’t afford to take that chance at this late stage of the game. He had safeguards in place to ensure the swift deaths of any of his operatives who might deviate from the plan, naturally, but he hadn’t gotten this far in life by not playing things safe, and he didn’t see the logic in changing that strategy now. Certainly not when he found himself this close to finally accomplishing his sacred mission.

  Gregory Mellon, who by default had now become his Number Two, stood in the center of the room, looking panicked.

  The Race Master laughed and reached out a comforting hand, clasping it onto the younger man’s shoulder. “No need to be afraid, Gregory. You’re among the lucky few who will be at my side for the culmination of our sacred mission. The realization of our dream. When that time comes, be assured that you will
hold a special place within our ranks.”

  Mellon swallowed hard. “Is it time, sir?”

  An electric jolt of adrenaline ripped through the Race Master’s veins. “Yes, Gregory,” he said. “The time is finally right. You may make the final arrangements now. Bring the senator’s daughter to me in Mississippi. Make sure she is not harmed in any way. I have important plans for her, and we need to keep her in good health – at least, for the time being. She’s worth nothing to us as a bargaining chip otherwise.”

  Gregory Mellon snapped off a stiff Nazi salute and pivoted sharply on his heel before exiting the room to go do his master’s bidding.

  “Consider it done, sir.”

  CHAPTER 102

  The ringing of Dana’s cellphone awoke her early the next morning.

  Lying on her stomach, she squinted her eyes and focused her blurry vision before reaching over to her bedside table, flipping open the phone and placing it to her ear. “Hello?” she said, groggily.

  Bruce Blankenship’s own voice came across the line clear and strong. He sounded like he’d been awake for hours already. “Dana,” he said. “I hope I’m not calling too early. Did I wake you?”

  Dana flipped herself over and pushed herself up straighter in bed. Oreo shot her an irritated glance over his right shoulder; annoyed that she’d disturbed his warm nest of blankets at her side. “No,” Dana lied. “I was already up. What’s going on?”

  Blankenship chortled. “Liar. Anyway, listen to this. The cat finally let go of Janice Wiley’s tongue. Same setup as the other murders, only the execution – so to speak – wasn’t quite as successful this time. Wiley’s an African-American woman who’s pregnant by a white guy. Her assailant attacked her in a deserted classroom at the state university and told Wiley that she was fucking up the country with ‘that mutant’ inside her stomach. Wiley disagreed with him – vehemently, I’d say – by jamming a steel letter-opener into his thorax. Pretty effective way of shutting someone up, right? Anyway, perp’s name was Walter Gibbons. Thirty-four-year-old ex-Marine who was discharged for his, quote, extremist political views. Gibbons then hooked up with one of those paramilitary groups where a bunch of guys dress up in camouflage clothing and run around the woods on the weekends in order to get ready for the big race war they’re always saying is coming. Gibbons was married three times, then subsequently divorced three times. No big shocker there, though, huh? No kids.”